


memento mori

by astrovagant



Category: Danny Phantom, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Flashbacks, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Hurt/Comfort, Inhumanity, Mental Health Issues, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Self-Discovery, Trans Character, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-28 13:05:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7641475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrovagant/pseuds/astrovagant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(n.) an object serving as a warning or reminder of death; latin for "remember that you have to die"</p><p>It was clear he'd run away. There'd been a note written sloppily on a piece of notebook paper in Danny's chicken scratch handwriting, but it hadn't said much. Just that he was sorry and that he didn't want to hurt anyone. Generic, really. </p><p>Tucker hated hero complexes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue: in memoriam

~.~

_**in memoriam** _

~.~

"Potter, you better come see this."

Harry James Potter didn't bother looking up from the papers that he was signing. It had been a long night, and instead of heading home he'd ended up falling asleep on his desk. He really should make good use of that sofa in the corner one of these days. While his chair did have a decent recline, using wrinkled up parchment to lay on wasn't the best pillow. Especially when the ink was still wet...

He wiped the corner of his mouth in disgust.

All of the recent raids were getting to him, clearly.

Harry sighed in defeat. Finally, he looked up with bleary eyes, "If this is about the report, I'm workin' on it right now. I should have it in by-" checking the watch that ticked faithfully at his wrist and finding that it was already a little over half past seven in the morning, he continued, "-around nine or ten, maybe?"

Registering that the wizard in front of him was not, in fact, a member of his department _or_ an intern, he sat up a bit straighter in his chair.

"You're wanted in the Department of Mysteries."

Tired eyes widened behind thick frames—had there been a breakthrough? He'd been promised long ago that if anything were to happen regarding this particular subject, he would be one of the first to know. A perk of being infamous, he supposed.

Another peek at his watch showed the time to be precisely seven forty-three AM. It looked like the report would have to wait—he couldn't quite stifle the relief he felt when presented with the chance to stretch his legs and, perhaps, stop to get some coffee.

Before he could stand, the Unspeakable was out the door. His own body protested as he stood, practically running to catch up with the taller man's long strides.

There was a reason why Harry never left his office. He could handle the joking jabs he got from Ron about how he was becoming the next Mad-Eye Moody, but the curious eyes that followed him everywhere were another story entirely. Harry kept his eyes forward as he followed the other man—he believed that his name was Clements, to the elevator.

The dependable ping of the lift transporting them from level two to nine was the only sound to accompany them as they made their way. Harry itched for a distraction—any distraction, even that horrible instrumental music that played in muggle businesses—to disturb the fluttering of his overexcited heart. When the wait was finally over, he let the other man lead the way through the empty hall. They only stopped once they entered a room full of nondescript doors that spun faster than an out-of-control broomstick.

Thank goodness Harry was used to those.

When the room reoriented itself, the other man pointed to a nondescript door. "Minister Shacklebolt is waiting for you," he said, sounding bored, "Said we shouldn't disturb the scene until you got here to take a look." With this, Clements turned on his heel, vanishing through yet another door.

Harry frowned. The man could have at least allowed Harry to thank him! But then again, maybe it was best that he'd seemed so disinterested. He'd take that over excessive questions any day.

Deciding to focus on the task at hand, Harry held his breath. The doorknob was cold and hard.

Coming down here never got any easier.

As he opened the door, a frigid wind seemed to radiate from within. He shivered.

The place lived up to its name as the Death Chamber—it had been twelve years, but the memories were crystal clear—the vibrant lights flying through the air like deadly fireworks, the sounds of battle, and, of course, the pain of loss. His godfather. Sirius Black. A fugitive to the end, but now a hero in the public's eyes.

His hands balled into fists as he forced himself to take deep breaths—in, out. His eyes wandered across the room's vast expanse to the source of the whispers that eerily echoed throughout. The Veil.

Something had happened here, he realized with a start. The walls had craters and the ground littered in debris. Almost unconsciously, he fingered the well-worn wood of his wand. Somehow, it emanated a comforting warmth.

"You must be wondering why I called for you on such short notice." Harry jumped, startled. It took him a moment to get his breathing back under control. Even under less stressful circumstances, this room brought out the worst in him. The Minister's mahogany skin shone in the faint light, displaying fine lines on his face and distinct dark circles under his eyes. Despite this, he stood proudly, wearing a small, knowing smile.

Kingsley Shacklebolt wasn't a natural leader. The kind of person that watched from the shadows, he preferred to sit back and observe. He'd surprised many of his critics, when, upon assuming the role of Minister, he'd flourished. Simultaneously diplomatic and straightforward in action, his guidance was what had brought the wizarding world into the beginning of a new era—one that Harry was, personally, proud to be a part of. Harry trusted Kingsley with more than his role in public office—he trusted him with his life. There weren't many others that he could say the same for.

Harry smiled despite himself, "You always have your reasons." he shifted his feet, continuing, "So…why are we here? Did something-"

"A being came out of the Veil alive."

It took him a moment to process what he'd heard. Disbelief and curiosity warred within him, fighting for dominance. Skepticism won out in the end. It was absurd, ridiculous, _impossible_ —the Veil was for the dead and the dead only. Anyone who went through it alive never came out that way—in fact, they never came out at all.

He didn't get a chance to ask for more information before Shacklebolt continued,"We're not quite sure of the logistics" The gentility in his voice didn't suit him in the least, Harry decided, "Put up one hell of a fight, though. Started shooting green lights out of its hands. The entire Department is in a state of panic over it—thought it was the killing curse."

Rage coursed through Harry like FiendFyre."Why wasn't I called?" he said, nails digging bloody crescents into the soft skin of his palms.

The tiny voice in his head that had steadily been growing louder over the years—loud enough to drown out his voice of reason—was telling him that he'd been kept from this intentionally. After all, it had happened before. Sometimes, people close to him treated him like porcelain, tip-toeing around the past as one does near a fine china cabinet perched on creaky wooden slats. Sometimes, they treated him as though he was still a child. As though a bit of gentleness _now_ would change what had happened.

But he wasn't a child, hadn't been one since the day he watched Dumbledore fall from the Bell Tower. He'd lost the last inklings of innocence then, when he'd realized what he had to do.

That had been eleven years ago.

"You were in your office. Everyone knows not to bother you when you're sleeping by now." Kingsley's smile widened, that same knowing look in his took a couple of deep, deep breaths - in, out - exhaling slowly and uncurling his fingers. This wasn't the time for temper tantrums. It was true—even the interns knew to not disturb Harry when his office door was closed. The few foolish enough to try usually ended up being hexed before they could so much as step into the room.

No, this wasn't the time for temper tantrums.

"Where is he now?"

**~.~**

**tbc**

**~.~**

 


	2. Chapter I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for graphic depictions of violence and injury, blood, flashbacks, panic attacks, anxiety, dissociation, and slight suicidal ideation. If anyone needs a summary of this chapter, just leave a review. I understand what it's like to want to enjoy something but be unable to because of triggers cropping up. Stay safe!

~.~

_**i.** _

~.~

There was thick, black smoke, intense heat, and pain.

And then he remembered. He forced himself upright, disregarding the deep throb in his leg and the sticky trickle leaking from his ringing ears. It didn't matter—not the smoke in his lungs, the flames licking at his skin, or the pain in his right leg that was slowly morphing into an odd, cold numbness. He had to find them.

Trying to outrun the voice in his head telling him that no one could survive this, he picked up his pace. The world tilted dangerously as he stumbled over upturned concrete. It was almost poetic in its own way, he thought distantly, the same way that hurricane or tornado was—the flames, the dust, the way that the ground warped under his feet…

No million dollar movie budget could ever do it justice.

He came across her first, crushed under the rubble. Chipped black nail polish was all the proof that he needed. It was Sam. His Sam. His best friend; the girl who snorted at his bad jokes. The girl he loved. He picked up the hot, heavy rocks with hands that burned, desperation filling him—he had to get her out, had make sure that she was okay, or if she wasn't okay that she was at least _alive_.

But when he finally unearthed her, finally held trembling fingers to the spot where he'd learned a pulse was supposed to be, he found nothing. Her eyes were empty, dark brown peeking through now-distorted violet contacts.

CPR didn't work. He tried and tried until her ribs cracked before resting his head on her chest. This wasn't real. It couldn't be. He wanted to shake her, wanted to scream and sob and force her to wake up, to breathe the life back into her. Instead, he put her down gently, tenderly, brushing singed hair out of her face and standing up. This wasn't the time to fall apart. He had to search for survivors.

Usually, pain gave him a certain measure of clarity, but now it was nothing but a distraction from what he needed to do. He resisted the urge to look down at his leg to assess the damage—it was already healing, anyway. It would be nothing but a scar soon.

He found Tucker next. His trademark glasses and red beret were missing alongside an arm, his PDA nowhere to be found. His eyes roved the area, searching for it until he found something blue sticking out of some nearby debris. As he got closer, he realized what it was. Jazz, his sister. The search for Tucker's beloved machine was quickly abandoned as he rushed over to her, gingerly pulling her out. Most of the hair that she'd painstakingly grown out was gone, and she was covered in burns. She wasn't breathing.

Neither of them could be saved.

As he continued on, his own injuries healed quickly—the aches began to fade, skin and muscle knitting itself together. Soon, the only thing left of his own time here would be the growing pile of bodies that he'd caused and the agony building within him.

His mother's hazmat suit had protected her from a lot of the damage, but it had melted into her skin in places. Blood pooled from her head steadily, staining the ground with red. There was no way anyone could survive losing that much blood, he realized as he took a closer look, checking her pulse just in case.

His father was nearly unrecognizable. He didn't think he'd ever seen the man so old, despite the gray that had been peppering his father's hair for as long as he could remember. Jack Fenton had always been full of life. It was hard to see him like this, hard to reconcile that this corpse and his father were the same person even though they clearly were—they had the same dark hair, the same blue eyes, the same large, pillowy build. Danny stared long and hard before he moved on.

When Danny tracked down Lancer, the knot in his chest tightened. The man's brow was relaxed. His eyes were closed and his frown lines had smoothed out for once. It was a bizarre sight—if he could ignore the singe marks on his clothes and the shrapnel buried deep in his chest that had clearly been what had killed him, he could have been sleeping. It was a pity, he thought, that he'd only ever seen him bearing the weight of being a teacher who actually cared about his students.

As he laid them side by side, coughing occasionally as his superhuman lungs cleared the smoke out of them like a nasty cold, he categorized how they had died. It was a gory sight, but he couldn't quite register it like he was supposed to. It wasn't real. There was no way that this could be real. It was a dream–some horrific nightmare that his mind had cooked up. It wasn't real. It couldn't be. It wasn't real.

But it was.

He almost swore that he could hear someone laughing in the distance.

.

Danny awoke with his heart beating like he'd run a ten-minute mile in Tetslaff's phys-ed class. He took a few deep breaths—in, out, in, out. He wasn't there, not anymore. He would never be there again.

He lay in his bed a while, waiting for the stinging of his eyes and the smell of burnt flesh to fade away and trying to pull himself back into the reality of his cool, dark room with the slate blue walls that he'd picked out himself when he was six. The glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling brought no comfort tonight, so he sat up. The room spun with the motion. Wishing for the ringing in his ears to become a distant memory, he headed towards the bathroom that he shared with Jazz. He splashed cold water onto his face, hoping that the sound of the faucet wouldn't wake her up—she'd always been a light sleeper. The coolness felt good against his skin. His eyes glowed a radioactive green, the only illumination in the dead of night.

Suddenly, the shadows that moved with him morphed into smoke. He could smell it in the air, feel the flames nearby. His body felt too warm, too heavy.

Making his way back to his bed, Danny willed himself not to stumble. His heart had picked up speed once more, beating faster than he could fly, and he could feel his limbs trembling violently. Practically throwing himself onto his soft bed, he wrapped them around himself for comfort. It didn't feel any safer. Danny knew that if he weren't half dead, if he had still needed to breathe, he would have been unable to. He hugged himself tighter, gasping for air between barely controlled sobs.

If hunks of lifeless mass floating in space were sentient, Danny was sure that this was what going supernova would feel like.

He'd been envying the heavens more and more, these days. Stars didn't have to worry about what their subsequent collapse would do to everything around them. They didn't have to hold themselves together for anyone—their sole purpose was to simply exist. Once a larger star reached the end of its lifespan, it died. The destruction it brought was welcome, allowing matter to be flung in all directions throughout the universe.

But Danny wasn't a star. He was a result— a science experiment gone horribly wrong. He could still remember the feeling of a thousand needles driving into him at once, making him what he was. He should have died in there for real, should have left his body behind, should have become a real ghost. Then, at least, he wouldn't have to keep up the masquerade.

He wasn't human anymore. He could tell.

There was an emptiness in him now, a deep coldness burrowed in his chest. With each ability that he gained and each fight he fought, the feeling to destroy only grew. Sometimes he couldn't ignore it, finding himself sucking energy out of the air like a vampire, tasting the emotions radiating off of people and feeding off of them.

And he was afraid. Oh, Clockwork, was he afraid. At this point, it was just as much a part of him as the blood and ectoplasm coursing through his system. It was the worst on nights, when the dreams took over his subconscious and made him wake up to terror and a distinct lack of oxygen. He'd stopped calling them nightmares months ago, figuring that nightmares weren't constant. This was his reality now.

It had been an alternate timeline. Being allowed to see the future had ensured that it would never happen. This was a fact. It bordered on ridiculous that he was still so terrified, but he was, and no matter how many ghosts he battled, no matter how many lives he saved and how many times his friends congratulated him, he couldn't make it go away. Not the emptiness, nor the memories that cemented the fact that he was no longer entirely human and that some day he could lose what little spark of life that was left in him. He couldn't let it go, couldn't stop himself from feeling like he was backed into a corner at the strangest of instances, body tense, limbs numb, mind a thousand miles away.

It had begun happening more and more frequently as the months rolled by. When his friends had begun to shoot him worried looks and treat him like broken glass, he'd decided that it was best for him to distance himself. He'd thrown himself into ghost fighting with fervor, stopped visiting them with injuries in the middle of the night and learned to patch himself up. When he wasn't ghost fighting, he was doing homework, and when he wasn't doing either, he was getting stronger—he'd asked his mother to train him in martial arts, and he'd taken to it surprisingly well, considering his tendency towards being a walking, talking disaster.

His grades, which had been slowly rising as he learned to balance both of his lives, shot up within weeks. His parents had been so happy to see his progress report covered in B's with the occasional A interspersed for flavor; his dad had patted his back so hard that anyone normal would have fallen over upon impact—he'd had to force himself to act winded—and his mom had tried to give him a kiss on his cheek, acting wounded when he'd avoided it. Jazz's reaction, however, had stunned him. She'd simply studied him like a puzzle she couldn't solve before giving him a subdued hair ruffle and a weak smile, heading up into her room with her one of her college-level psychology textbooks in tow.

When his mother had cooked a surprisingly edible meal of his own choosing for dinner that night, Danny couldn't help but notice Jazz's eyes on him, a worried aura pouring off of her like the smoke that met him every night.

That had been weeks ago. Since then, she'd taken to hovering over him even more than usual—checking in on him at night and asking him deep, probing questions that she expected him to answer. Danny found himself using the classic excuse of going to hang out with his two best friends more and more, though both he and Jazz knew that it was just that: an excuse. He barely even saw them at school nowadays aside from in the hallways.

He wanted to talk about it more than anything, wanted to attempt to fill that ever-present hole in his chest, wanted to simply feel alive and secure and whole… but he could never burden anyone with the knowledge of what had happened. He could still remember the fear that came off of them in waves the day they'd met his future self, the revulsion in their eyes when they'd seen what he'd become. They couldn't know what he was truly capable of.

After all, he'd give anything to not know himself.

~.~

The pull of the Ghost Zone was always stronger at midnight. It called to gnawing hunger coiled within him, promising to feed it more than food ever could. It scared him. He usually tried to avoid his parents' lab at night for this reason.

Tonight he would give into the urge.

Danny had been toying with the idea of disappearing, lately. It was getting harder and harder to convince himself that he was protecting anyone staying in Amity—if anything, the ghosts were coming after _him_ , vying for what they considered his territory. It was his own childish selfishness that had insured he'd stayed there as long as he had. His own attachment, his own fear of change. He'd let it cloud his judgment, and his loved ones had very nearly paid for it with their lives.

He couldn't let that happen again.

Sam, Tucker, his family… they were at risk. Their _lives_ were at risk. Walking the line between life and death was dangerous. Jazz saw it for what it was. He knew she did, with her worried eyes and her probing questions. Sam and Tucker, they'd never seen it as anything but a game, something to fill their mundane human nights with adventure.

But it wasn't a game. Not to Danny. He wasn't sure if it ever had been.

Life was a peculiar thing. Even now, in human form, his body didn't work the way that it used to. He had to remind himself breathe on some days, had to jump-start his own heart. Sometimes, when he was tired, he'd forget to ground himself. He'd fall solid objects, drop items, or disappear entirely. Injuries didn't hurt the same way anymore, and blood was no longer alarming. Hunger was rare. Pain was a novelty.

The weight of the human body, the steady cardiac thrum of his heart carrying blood through his veins, the way that his lungs expanded and contracted—he'd never noticed the little things that assured him he was alive until they were no longer something that he could rely on.

Growing up in a family of ghost hunters, Danny had never been particularly afraid of death. In his home, it was a subject to be fascinated by. Near death experiences were seen as something to marvel at, and growing up exposed to a variety of dangerous inventions ensured that being close to death was as common as food cooked in the lab on a Bunsen burner.

It was simply a part of the cycle.

But living with death was different. Before he'd seen his future, he'd been able to ignore it, but now there was no denying the fact that he was more inhuman than not. There was a monster under his false human skin and it was only a matter of time before it awakened.

Danny stared at the portal, mesmerized by its glow, hand tightening around the navy blue duffel at his side. He'd packed some clothes and some ecto-weapons—nothing else. He didn't need anything that would tempt him return. This was the right choice, the only choice.

Even if it hurt more than a high caliber ectoblast fired directly at his chest.

He took a step, then another. It was for the best. He was close enough to reach out his fingers and touch it now. Another step. His hair rustled in the breeze whispering in from the other side. Another. He could almost taste the ectoplasm in the air, a hint of ozone, the beginnings of a thunderstorm. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. This was it.

He dove in head-first.

~.~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I was planning on uploading this yesterday but ended up editing it a bunch because I'm a perfectionist. I've been fixing it all day and at this point I'm tired of looking at it. Knowing myself, I'll probably come back to it in the next few days to edit for wording and redundancy. This is a really raw and emotional chapter. Originally, I worried that posting all of these scenes in one spot would be too revealing, but the backstory is kind of necessary and incorporating flashbacks didn't seem like the right choice to me. I can really relate to Danny as a character, and derived a lot from my personal experiences with trauma and mental illness. As such, there will be negativity. There will also be positivity and recovery and love, but things always get worse before they get better and, sometimes, you just learn how to live with what you have to and that's all you can do.
> 
> Anyway, that was a tangent. I tend to go on a lot of those. Please review, and tell me what you think so far! I could really use feedback and constructive criticism. I really want to make myself a better writer!
> 
> Until next week~
> 
> astrovagant


	3. Chapter II.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for injury! I don't think there's anything else... :o

~.~

_**ii.** _

~.~

Harry's mind buzzed with new information as he made his way to the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

According to Kingsley, the creature that had come from beyond the Veil had incredible abilities—wandless magic, abnormally fast reflexes, and the faculty to strategize that a fully-trained Auror would covet. None of the spells caste on it had seemed produce an effect, instead seeming to only further its rage. It had rendered no less than the six Unspeakables that had been on duty and five Aurors that had arrived on the scene unconscious before someone had managed to find a way to subdue it by hitting it over the head with a piece of fallen debris.

At a less, they'd then tied it up with good old-fashioned conjured ropes and transported it to a cell meant for holding unidentified magical beings. Idealistically, they'd hoped that it wouldn't wake up before reinforcements had arrived. Judging by the bangs and crashes presumably coming from the room that they were headed towards...

Harry quickened his pace.

In another situation, perhaps the wreckage of the room would have been funny. Papers were scattered everywhere, various objects were floating in mid-air, and five more Aurors were facing a cell, wands raised in alarm. A strange coldness, similar to the one felt in the Death Chamber, radiated from a corner of the room.

Harry blinked.

When he'd heard that something had come out of the Veil, he'd, perhaps foolishly, imagined a creature comparable to the Inferi, complete with rotting flesh. What he hadn't expected was for the creature to be in the form of a teenage boy. It was almost as though he were looking at one of the pictures taken of him in his youth—the olive-toned skin, the dark hair, the lithe, almost too-thin build. It was strange—even the child's eyes were similar to his own if he ignored their strange glow.

He couldn't be an Inferius—he was clearly alive, and he couldn't be a ghost either—every specter that Harry had ever seen had been faded, a shadow of who they once were in monochrome. This being, this _child_ , was not.

And he was clearly afraid. The fear radiated off of the boy in wave—s; Harry could almost taste the feeling, an impending thunderstorm tickling his tongue.

This wasn't right.

Harry pocketed his wand, choosing to ignore the incredulous looks being thrown his way. He stepped forward slowly, making sure that his hands were visible to minimize threat. The boy's gaze snapped towards him, and he froze in place. His heartbeat sped up, and, suddenly, he was aware of the way in which the air around him seemed colder. Those were the eyes of a predator.

Why had he thought that putting away his wand was a good idea, again?

"Hello... My name is Harry. Harry Potter. None of us want to harm you in any way. I would like to ask you a few questions, if that's alright. But first, would you please discard your weapons?" he cursed the slight tremble in his voice as he spoke, cursed the raw terror flooding him...

Then, something in the creature's expression changed. The chill of the room lessened as the boy snorted in disbelief. The electricity in the air dissipated and the temperature began to rise. The child then closed his eyes in concentration. Slowly, like a feather dropping the the floor, the items that had previously levitated around the room haphazardly returned to their original spots. A feeling of safety returned to Harry, and he let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He took a moment to revel in the feeling.

Sensing that the boy in question wasn't going to say anything on his own and that none of his employees seemed up to interrogation this early in the morning, he held back a sigh. It looked like he was going to be on his own on this one—Kingsley was hanging back by the door, probably so as to not aggravate the situation, his own Aurors were watching him, and the members of the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures seemed to think he had some semblance of control…

Harry weighed his options.

Clearly, interrogation was the wrong route to take, given how well the newcomer had responded to him simply asking nicely. But he couldn't let his guard down just yet—he already knew an inkling of what the boy was capable of.

Finally, he spoke, "So… do you have a name?"

The boy stared at him as though he had a particularly offensive booger hanging out of his nose. Then, his expression morphed into something unreadable. He uncrossed his arms. His eyes sparkled with a strange light—amusement, maybe?

"I'm just a Phantom."

~.~

To say that Danny had been alarmed upon his return to consciousness was an understatement. His head pounded, his body ached, and he could feel thick ropes binding his limbs together, making it impossible for him to move. To his distress, he couldn't seem to phase out of them. Someone was talking, but he couldn't understand what they were saying. Upon opening his eyes, he found that all he could make out were vague, blurry shapes. The world spun.

He groaned.

"It's awake!" someone shrieked. Before he could get his bearings, his bindings were untied and he was hastily thrown into a cage. There was something soft underneath him. He welcomed the reprieve, taking deep, measured breaths and trying to quell his nausea.

Something was wrong. Suddenly, he felt like he was on fire. Shooting up instinctively, he reopened his eyes.

It must be true that history tended to repeat itself— after all, being stuck in what appeared to be the seventeen hundreds, if he had his history right, with blood blossoms encircling him was extremely familiar.

Danny cursed his knack for getting into bad situations.

He couldn't quite remember how he'd gotten here. He'd been flying through the ghost zone, right? He'd decided to run—to leave. He could vaguely remember being drawn to an out-of-place portal that he'd never seen before and impulsively going through it. The rest was a blur. He remembered waking up abruptly to strange sticks poking him, men in glorified bath robes looking down at him in awe and a little bit of fear. The taste of it in the air had been welcome washing over him in calming waves. It had somehow been different than the emotions of normal humans, though, which broke him out of his groggy haze.

They'd spoken to him softly, at first, but when they'd mentioned him coming out of a "veil" and asked him if he was dead, he'd panicked a little. Apparently, abrupt movement startled these strange people. Words flew from their mouths and lights shot out of the funny little sticks in their hands, hitting him directly. It had been strange—his body had locked up and he'd begun to fall before the effects had worn off. Anger had risen, then—he hadn't done anything wrong, who the fuck were these guys?—and he'd begun shooting.

In retrospect, it hadn't been the best idea. It had lead to him being here, stuck in a cage, with a probable concussion, a strange tingle in his limbs, and blood blossoms covering the ground beneath him, threatening to cause him great pain if he so much as attempted to go ghost and possibly even if he didn't. Without thinking about it, he curled his legs up underneath him and began to float—pretty soon, the blossoms would have begun to burn through his thin shoes' soles, anyway. He was surprised that they hadn't already. If these had been fresh, like they had been before, he'd probably be completely done for.

His spinning head made coming up with any sort of plan virtually impossible - he must've hit his head hard if it was affecting him this much. Then again, Jazz had mentioned the adverse effects of recurring concussions a few weeks ago, when she'd found him passed out on the floor of his room with blood dribbling out of a particularly nasty head wound...

He stopped that particular train of thought quickly.

The murmurs surrounding him turned into a myriad of surprised squawks. He looked up quickly at the new sound assaulting his ringing ears, cursing the wave of vertigo that nearly sent him straight into the toxic flowers carpeting his new living space. Dimly, he marveled at the sheer amount of power that it must've taken for a ghost to levitate so many objects at once— it seemed as though the entire room was floating. A few of the people who'd been surrounding his cell were now desperately trying to return to their spots on the floor.

All too slowly, he realized that his ghost sense hadn't gone off. There weren't any ghosts here. But that meant…

Wait. Was he doing that?

Despite the protests his vision sent him at it, he tilted his head curiously. Telekinesis? Well, that was new. Almost every other ghost that he'd met seemed to have it aside from Vlad. He'd figured it was a halfa thing to not. His "dark" counterpart had been able to use telekinesis, and he'd been full ghost…

He shut down that train of that, too. Thinking about Him never ended well, and he needed to be as alert as possible in this situation. It was already bad enough that he couldn't see straight. He didn't need to lose touch with reality, too.

As much as he wanted to enjoy his captors flailing in the air, he knew that punishing them wouldn't end too well for him. So, with great disappointment, he tried to concentrate on figuring out how to let them down. It was harder than he thought it would be, but it probably would've been much easier had he not been surrounded by something that served to incapacitate him alongside a nasty headache.

Eventually, though, it worked. Unfortunately for both him and his test subjects, however, he'd only released them from his metaphorical grip. They crashed into the floor none too gently before immediately scrambling to their feet. At least six sticks were pointing at him. He gulped, raising his hands in submission.

Murphy's Law fucking sucked.

Right at that moment, the door flung open. In stepped a tall and spindly man who wore a harried expression and a pair of vaguely rounded horn-rimmed glasses. Despite the man's slight build, something about him screamed experience. Behind him was another man with dark skin, an impassive expression, and a seemingly distinct love for the color blue that perhaps rivaled Danny's own. Star print adorned his silken costume.

Danny was impressed. If the situation hadn't been so dire, he may've liked that man, if only for his choice in clothing. He would've loved that pattern for a bedspread...

Both unidentified men stared at him. He stared right back.

What felt like ages but was probably only a few moments passed before either new additions moved. Danny's eyes flickered from the men to the door and back to the men in quick succession. If it weren't for those goddamned blood blossoms, maybe he could've slipped out. The bars of his cell exuded a strange buzzing sensation, but Danny could handle a few shocks if it meant freedom.

Sensing movement, he returned his gaze to the man who wore the horn-rimmed glasses as he, to Danny's surprise, lowered his wand and placed it in one of the pockets of his pants. It fit neatly, making Danny wonder exactly how injured he was. There was no way that a glorified stick could fit into a pair of jeans' pockets that well.

And then, the man spoke, his hands raised placatingly and his voice oddly kind. His demands, too, were reasonable. Too reasonable. What did he want?

And then, the man, who he now knew was named "Harry"—what kind of awful name was that, anyway?—asked for his name.

There it was. Did the guy really think that a few nice words would get him to talk? That was hilarious. His lips quirked up in a ghost of a smile.

"I'm just a Phantom."

~.~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note:
> 
> Well. That took me awhile.
> 
> I'm so sorry, y'all. I actually have the first few chapters of this fic written up, but this chapter was giving me a lot of trouble. I had to rework the entire thing so many times! It was really frustrating! On the bright side, I've finally come up with a somewhat solid plot and tied a lot of loose ends together, so hopefully I'll be able to update a few times a month!
> 
> I didn't want to go too far without having any sort of plan in action, and my first few chapters were pretty much written on impulse. I've come up with a framework that I want to work around, and I'm so pumped to be writing this!
> 
> Oh, and another thing: in the prologue, I stated that Danny was about 14 or 15. I've now decided that Danny will be around sixteen in this fic. It takes place after D-Stabilized, but Phantom Planet didn't happen because that was... a mess. So! Yes! There was a lot more build-up because of that! All of the other episodes still happened, of course!
> 
> I also edited the last two chapters for redundancy and the like. The prologue was far too wordy for my tastes, gosh...
> 
> In other news, I am now a co-writer for Sephora7's "Shattered Destiny" on FFN! My additions start in chapter 7, and we'll be editing the rest together soon! If you're into Teen Titans / Danny Phantom crossovers or even if you're not, you should check it out. I think it's pretty cool. ;)
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> astrovagant


	4. Chapter III

**_~.~_ **

**_iii._ **

**_~.~_ **

Tuckerwas concerned. Not that he would let anyone know it - after all, he was the easygoing one. Bad jokes were his specialty alongside computers, and it was his job to keep his friends happy and healthy and grounded. And he was needed as an anchor more than ever, now, because Danny was gone.

It was clear he’d run away. There’d been a note written sloppily on a piece of notebook paper in Danny’s shitty chicken scratch handwriting addressed to him and Sam on his desk the morning he’d disappeared, but it hadn’t said much. Just that he was sorry and that he didn’t want to hurt anyone. Generic, really.

Tucker hated hero complexes.

He must’ve been in a hurry- only a few of Danny’s favorite t-shirts were missing, along with two pairs of jeans, and, of course, his binders. He’d packed light. None of the pictures that he had framed on his bedside table were missing, and he hadn’t even brought any of his model airplanes with him. It was as though he didn’t want to bring things that made him remember his life here, with them. With Tucker and Sam and and Jazz and his parents. It kind of made Tucker want to punch a wall.

He tried his best to hide the anger burning in his throat, hot and heavy against his Adam’s apple, but he knew that everyone could see it in the way he ground his jaw and the fact that he hadn’t cracked any real jokes recently. Even his precious PDA brought no comfort. He’d tried playing video games, but it wasn’t the same without the perpetual player two that he’d grown accustomed to having since the second grade and Sam was too busy hiding out in her room and brooding to pick up a controller. He’d tried marathoning his favorite horror movie franchise and watching TV shows, but the empty space next to him on the couch left behind nothing but an empty, gnawing feeling in his stomach. Like hunger, but worse.

So, he’d been doing a lot of homework, eating a lot of junk food, and searching the Ghost Zone as often as he could, Boo-merang in hand.

They’d told Danny’s parents that he’d been fighting ghosts on the third day. Sam hadn’t wanted to, and Tucker himself had been wary, but Jazz had decided that she was either going to tell with him or without and both Sam and Tucker had believed her, with her wide eyes and tight fists and faux-calm demeanor. They’d at least agreed not to tell her parents about the half-ghost thing just yet--it was Danny’s secret after all. But they had told Maddie and Jack that Danny was, most likely, in the Ghost Zone.

After all, ghosts were probably the reason that Danny left to begin with.

Tucker had assumed that he’d been handling everything well. With over a year of experience under his belt, Danny could defeat most of his enemies with his hands tied behind his back. His grades were rising, and he’d been present in class a lot more to the surprise of, well, everyone. Over time, though, both Tucker and Sam began to sense a certain distant chill radiating off of him.

At first, it was the little things: not telling them when he was fighting the more minor ghosts, avoiding them in the hallways. Over summer vacation, they’d gone on their road-trip-turned-save-the-world-trip, and it had been pretty fun! Utterly terrifying, but fun! Over the rest of the summer, though, Danny had talked to them less and less. When they tried to visit, he was almost never home, and when they invited him out he always declined. Sure, they’d dragged him over to the Nasty Burger a couple of times, but it hadn’t been the same.

When they did see him, there was a faraway look in his eyes and his smiles never quite reached them. His laughter wasn’t genuine. Every time Sam or Tucker had touched him, he’d jerk away, guarded expression melting into a strange look that Tucker couldn’t place before he immediately put the mask back up. After this would happen, Tucker always tried to avoid taking too much notice that Danny’s hands would shake subtly for the rest of the afternoon.

When school started back up, they’d tried to pry it out of him. Sometimes they’d done it together, asking little questions to try and get him to open up, but when both Sam and Tucker had realized that that just made him get defensive, they’d gone for the more direct approach -  inquiring one-on-one. Still, they’d gotten no answers from Danny regarding his behavior.

And, as Danny pushed them away, Tucker had kind of stopped wanting them.

Tucker was a geek. He was Bad Luck Tuck. He got shoved in lockers almost as much as Danny did by jocks, and slandered even more. As such, he'd earned from an early age to read situations in order to avoid being hurt too badly. He knew when he wasn’t wanted.

Still, Tucker wished that he could pinpoint the exact moment that Danny had began to disappear. Sometime after they’d tried to keep Danny from cheating on the CATs and Jazz had found out about Danny’s powers was his best guess. Danny hadn’t told them exactly what had happened, but they’d all seen his dark future first hand, and it hadn't been good. He’d promised them all that he’d never become that countless times after, but his voice had sounded more like he was trying to convince himself than any of them and his eyes had been desperate.

But Tucker supposed that it didn’t matter when it started, not really. What mattered now was finding him. Jazz had used some psycho-babble about saving Danny from himself and hero complexes, and Tucker couldn’t help but agree with the half of what she said that he could actually understand. Danny needed help, but no one could help him until they found him.

Which was what brought him here, to the Ghost Zone, on a lovely Saturday afternoon when he should be playing video games, chugging Mountain Dew, and eating out of a family sized bag of Doritos while he awaited a luxurious, meaty dinner. Tucker couldn’t help but let out a long-suffering sigh as he, Jazz, and Sam followed the boomerang in the Specter Speeder for what felt like the millionth time but was actually more like the fifth, searching fruitlessly for their missing comrade.

Trying to lighten the dark mood present in the Specter Speeder, Tucker put on his trademark whining voice, “Can we go home now? I need to feed!!!”

Two sets of accusing eyes were on him in an instant. He shrunk back. It had been worth a try, he supposed, smiling ruefully to himself as he turned back to their badly drawn and poorly detailed map and crossed out possibilities. It was going to be a long night, but Danny was worth the effort.

...

 

“Where are my clothes?!”

It had been five days since the fiasco in the Department of Mysteries. Most of the damage done to to the room that held the Veil was fixed by now, though the same couldn’t be said for the psyches of those who had been involved. It had hit far too close to home for anyone’s tastes, and rumors of dark magic were beginning to spread among those who enjoyed gossip - which included the entirety of wizarding Britain.

Right now, there were more important things to worry about, however. It seemed that Harry had walked into another predicament. Phantom was glowering, his arms crossed - no, _wrapped_ around his chest almost protectively. The boy had been placed in the “Beings” division, much to the chagrin of the people working there. But there was, unfortunately for them, nothing that they could do about it. While every person that he had come into contact with thus far would definitely corroborate the fact that he had a horrible temper and even worse impulse control, he was completely sentient. That meant that they couldn’t classify him as a beast. And he certainly was like no spirit that they had ever seen - he was solid, first of all.

In fact, it was getting harder and harder for the department to justify classifying him as a creature at all - he seemed almost entirely human if one ignored the fact that his eyes glowed a poisonous green whenever he got angry and that he was more likely to float than he was to actually touch the floor. But most of this could be attributed to accidental magic. Phantom was clearly a bit old to have flown under the radar, as wizards were typically identified before their eleventh birthdays, but it was possible. Especially regarding America’s leniency towards these kinds of things and Phantom’s very obvious American accent.

Still, it didn’t explain how the kid had survived traversing through what was supposedly the realm of the dead without a scratch, nor did it explain how he had come to land smack dab in the middle of Britain. And it wasn’t as though Phantom was going to give up any information either - he didn’t so much as speak to anyone except Harry himself. He seemed to have taken a liking, or rather, a _tolerance_ , to his company, much to the dismay of the department. They were under the impression Harry had other things to do as the Head of the Auror office. Harry himself had made it clear to them that he didn’t mind. In fact, he had made a promise to himself to visit a couple of times a day at least. It was a good excuse to stretch his legs from behind his desk. It was also a good excuse to avoid the mounting pile of paperwork atop it, but no one had to know that.

By this time, the boy’s eyes were glowing dangerously, and he was floating higher than usual. Oh dear. Phantom was looking at him, wasn’t he?

Yep. He was. Harry shifted from foot to foot. He still wasn’t used to the boy’s vaguely unsettling eyes trained on him. While, in his opinion, Phantom was most likely human, but he had the eyes and aura of a predator. His scrutiny seemed to pierce Harry’s very core...

Harry cleared his throat.

“What seems to be the problem this time?”

The boy pulled at the plain, white outfit that he was wearing in utter distress, “I want my clothes back.” His high voice was simultaneously petulant and whiny, making him seem even younger than he likely was, and Harry had to resist chuckling. He still couldn’t believe that this kid was viewed as a threat by anyone most of the time.

“What’s wrong with what you’re wearing?” he asked, trying to suppress the growing smile on his lips.

Phantom broke eye contact and frowned at the ground. “I need my clothes back.” he repeated. His voice was more small this time, almost pleading. He seemed embarrassed, though Harry had no idea why. Harry frowned. Phantom had been stuck in the same cell for a week now. At the end of the first day, all of his personal belongings (which consisted of a small duffle bag and the outfit on his back) had been confiscated to check for weapons and contamination. Phantom had only surrendered his clothing out of fear of punishment, and it was clear that he was still none too pleased.

So far, nothing particularly threatening had been found in the boy’s things aside from some strange muggle devices that seemed to be weapons of sort stashed in his bag. Because of this, Harry wasn’t quite sure why the boy’s clothing hadn’t been returned to him within the first few hours of his containment.

The idea of Phantom being stuck in a cage was starting to mess with his morals a bit, in all honesty. Sure, he’d injured a few people, but fear does that kind of thing. While the circumstances in the boy’s arrival to the ministry were undoubtedly suspicious, the idea of containment and the suggestions of experimentation that were being mentioned more and more frequently seemed like too much.

Harry filed the thought away. He’d make sure to ask Hermione about laws regarding unidentified magical beings when they went out for lunch this afternoon. For now, he had a teenager to deal with.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

The relieved sagging of Phantom’s shoulders made the the guilty pit lying somewhere in his gut triple in size. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. Hi. So I don't really have an excuse for nearly two years without updating aside from a lack of inspiration, mental illness, and some really huge life changes. Regardless of the long update gap, I have no intention of abandoning any of my stories. This one has been pretty difficult to write because I started it entirely on impulse, with no idea where it was going. I'm still pretty murky on the details, but I enjoy writing this story and have lots of ideas, so hopefully I'll be able to update sooner in the future. I was actually going to completely scrap this story and rewrite it, but after reading it again I see a lot of potential. I'm super excited to see where it goes! 
> 
> Also, my DP blog is qhostboi, if anyone is interested in following! I follow through a different blog, but yeah!
> 
> Until next time,  
> astrovagant

**Author's Note:**

> Well... it's been awhile.
> 
> Uh, so. This is a new fic that I've been working on for a month or two, ever since I rewatched Danny Phantom. It's some Good Shit (TM) and Danny's pretty relatable.
> 
> Anyway, onto story details. This fic is set in 2007, about ten years after the Battle of Hogwarts in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. I'll be mostly sticking to canon, (aside from various headcanons) for both series. For DP, this is canon divergent from after The Ultimate Enemy. There are a few events from after that mentioned, but it's placed a couple of months after Reality Trip, during the school year. Danny is around fourteen/fifteen in this story and a Sophomore in high school. I'm not 100% sure where I'm going with this, but I'm pretty dedicated so far and have a couple of chapter's worth of unorganized material, maybe more. There will be angst, heavy discussion of mental illness and trauma, and discussion of sexuality and gender, among other things. I'll try and put heavy trigger warnings on the top of every chapter and can summarize on request! There will also be cursing, because, honestly, what fifteen year old doesn't curse? I certainly did.
> 
> Please give me feedback! It's been awhile since I've written anything, especially with a genuine intent to go through with writing it, and I'm really pumped! Many thanks to all of the great DP/HP crossovers out there and my lovely pal Sukie, who pretty much held my hand through writing this and gave me the confidence to keep going, no matter how many times I tried to sabotage myself!
> 
> Oh, also - I have a Danny Phantom blog; it's spaectral if anyone is interested in following!
> 
> -astrovagant


End file.
